Were Wishes Abraxans
by La Feu Eterne
Summary: A compendium of drabbles based on Kamerreon's 'If Wishes Were Thestrals'. I warn you here about . . . well, everything the human mind can envision.
1. I

**Sirius / Harry**

**Remember My Best**

_A gift for Kamerreon_

Sirius stared at the deceptively innocent looking potion flask in his hands. Before the trembling in his fingers became too much for him, he put it safely down on the bedside cupboard and turned away to await his husband of a few hours. At the sound of Harry exiting the bathroom, Sirius turned towards the noise. His breath caught.

Skin flushed from his shower, Harry gazed back at Sirius, emerald eyes blazing from those beloved features, that face that no longer evoked memories of either James or Lily but was all Harry, just Harry – his Harry. The robe he was wearing clung to the still-damp skin and Sirius' fingers itched to tear away the flimsy silk. There should be no barrier between him and his beloved – not tonight, of all nights. Moving towards Harry, Sirius growled deep in his throat, a sound of possession Padfoot thoroughly approved of.

"Mine." It was a guttural snarl, intoxicating in the lust and promise it bore. Harry's eyes fluttered closed.

"Yours," he breathed, as he was pulled into his husband's arms.

As Sirius laid Harry on the bed, covering his face in kisses, he stopped suddenly. Confused, Harry looked up to find him gazing down at him, with a strange mix of delight and sadness on his face. Reaching up a questioning hand to touch him, Harry asked, "What is it, Sirius?"

Staring down at him a moment longer, Sirius said, with peculiar intensity, "I love you more than anything in creation, Harry. Never forget that. No matter what happens, Harry, my love for you can never be killed."

Harry looked back at him, slightly puzzled but delighted nevertheless. "I know. I know, my love."

.*.*.*.

Much later, Sirius divided the contents of the flask in half. Dropping one of his hairs in one goblet, he gently coaxed his still half-asleep husband into trustingly drinking it down, inwardly giving thanks for Harry's practice at choking down disgusting potions; any other would have been shocked into wakefulness by the Permanent Polyjuice. Easing Harry back into his exhausted slumber, Sirius gently pulled out one of his husband's hairs, adding it to his portion of the potion before drinking it with a grimace.

Pressing a kiss to Harry's forehead, Sirius pulled his husband close and lay back, watching Harry sleep.

.*.*.*.

As the clock in the hallway chimed six, heralding early morning, the man once known as Sirius Black pulled gently away from his husband, leaving his marriage bed in the home for which he was once more Secret Keeper to go to the Ministry, where he would receive the Dementor's Kiss for Harry Potter's supposed crime of having killed Voldemort to take his place as Dark Lord.


	2. II

**Draco / Harry**

**Guardian**

Draco looked at the little boy his Uncle Severus was carrying. Mummy had told him that the new boy was the same age as Draco himself, but Draco knew better. Mummy probably hadn't seen him yet. He was only a little bigger than half Draco's size. He was just a baby.

Draco, on the other hand was A Big Boy. Therefore, it was his duty to see that the baby was looked after, especially as Uncle Severus and Uncle Remus hadn't had time to practice looking after a baby right from the start. Draco, on the other hand, had tremendous experience with this sort of thing. Why, not so long ago, he had _been_ a baby!

Confidently, he marched up to the sofa and sat as close to the baby and Uncle Severus as possible. He was not yet observant enough to see the tension in the adults as he reached a chubby little hand towards the 'baby'. As the baby turned his face to Draco, however, he stilled. Frowning lightly, Draco poked at his uncle.

"Why haven't you given him his bath yet? He's got a huge black patch of dirt all over one eye! It's so dirty, his eye is all squished up!" None of the adults were about to explain to a boy who had never had a hand raised to him in violence just what the 'patch of dirt' was. Nor were they about to detail the difficulties and dangers of attempting to undress and bathe a child who had yet to voluntarily speak and had been too terrified to let go of Severus since they had gained custody of him.

Gently caressing the baby's smooth cheek, Draco said, "Don't worry, baby. I'm here now. I'll give you a bath and look after you." With little tugs, he coaxed the child out of his uncle's lap and started walking him towards the door.

"I'm going to be your new cousin. And you're going to be my baby. I'll look after you and tuck you in and give you sweets and kiss you and bathe you and feed you and dress you up and . . ."

Harry Potter, who hadn't spoken since over a month ago, when his Aunt Petunia had kicked his little stomach for daring to ask if he could have some water, looked at this odd boy who didn't seem to be at all like Dudley, and was still listing things he would do for Harry. Something within him seemed to be saying that the way of things was _right_, now that he was with this boy who looked like an angel.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'll be your baby."


	3. III

**Loved I Not Honour More**

**Roger Davies / Harry**

_I could not love thee, dear, so much,_

_Loved I not honour more._

_Richard Lovelace_

Very few people bothered waiting for their soulmates these days. In the past five hundred years or so, the rarity of soulmates actually finding each other had increased tremendously. Therefore, Roger Davies felt no compunction about getting married at eighteen, to a witch of excellent bloodlines and carefully evaluated beauty – it would not do for the Davies heirs to be physically displeasing, having depended upon a woman who had to descend to using glamours.

That was why, a year later, when Harry Potter came into his magical maturity, it felt as though his heart were being wrenched out of him each time he looked at his wedding band.

For fourteen long years, they waited. Roger never lay with his wife again, yet he never failed to treat her with the utmost kindness and courtesy. His son, thankfully, took on many of his mother's features. He had not realised at the start just how startling the resemblance was, that his wife bore to his mate. It was as though magic itself had intervened to ensure that his son was the child of her body but Harry's soul. Now, in the dead of night, when he kissed his son's inky black hair and watched the bright green eyes flutter closed, he could pretend that this was the son Harry would have borne him, had Roger but waited another year to wed.

It was an open secret, in their household. It had been so ever since Orion – named without making too obvious a choice – had ignored his mother's outstretched arms and run to his Uncle Harry for comfort when he had fallen and skinned his palms. The hurt and sad acceptance in her eyes had been almost too much to bear for Roger, though he knew she had never blamed either Harry or himself for what their hearts and magic had chosen. Even Orion, for all that he adored his mother, had always known that the beautiful man with eyes like his own, whom his father's eyes never left if he was in the room, was an intrinsic part of their lives.

On Orion's eleventh birthday, the day his parents' marriage could be dissolved with no dishonour to any party involved, he watched in both regret and delight as his mother kissed his father and Harry on the cheeks before portkeying the four of them to the garden where the guests she had secretly invited were waiting.

After the quiet wedding, Roger's hands trembled as he tipped up Harry's face to share their first kiss. Neither noticed the pops of apparition as their guests discreetly left, taking Orion with them.

And so, it was there, on the sweet-smelling grass beneath an arch of white roses, that Roger took his love's virginity, fourteen years after they had first known they were destined to be eternally together.


	4. IV

**Mischief Not Quite Managed**

**Draco / Harry **

The devious pair quickly scampered under Lucius' desk, where there was just enough space for two eight-year olds to hide. They settled down to peek out from the gap between the desk and the floor, waiting for their quarry to walk to his doom.

Sure enough, there it entered, the nasty Weasel-boy that had pulled at Harry's hair and called Draco names. _What_ the senile old bat was thinking, to bring this peasant into his home, Draco did not know. And what in Merlin's name was wrong with his eyes? If either he or Harry had looked at them with eyes so febrile and bright, Mummy or Uncle Severus would dosed them with Pepper-Up and Fever-Reducer before confining them to bed. Harry had postulated that, since the harebrained old lemon-drugged dingbat – what clever things his Uncle Severus said, thought Draco proudly, although, come to think of it, he also said other things that Mummy had promised him would lead to no sweets for two weeks should he ever repeat them – was quite the shrivelled relic, no-one cared that he was sick and everyone was in fact hoping that a good fever would finish him off.

Looking at the copper-haired rodent, Draco agreed that, yes, the thought of willingly associating with so great an insult to the human race could only be the work of a seriously ailing mind. He hoped that the fever would do its job quickly. He wanted to get this rodent away from his baby, before it gave him any of the strange diseases that it surely carried.

From their secure vantage point, the boys watched as Ronald Weasley looked around, with a nasty, avaricious glint in his eyes, taking in the sumptuous furnishings, before finally allowing his beady eyes to settle on a bowl of Honeyduke's finest sitting on the far end of Draco's father's favourite Aubusson. Grinning with all the pleasure the little scavenger could muster, he eagerly ran towards it. Ah. The fool.

There was a reason for that particular carpet being Lucius Malfoy's favourite. The weavers had imbued some very high-level hexes into its very threads. The boys had been warned away from it years ago, but had never forgotten the marvellous fun they had had when watching Cornelius Fudge step onto it some time ago. Lucius only used that particular office when he was _very_ displeased with whoever he was entertaining. Of course, he would apologize later, but his guests were usually quite amenable to any suggestions for a day or two after their little encounter with the carpet and swiftly forgave him, on the grounds that _of_ _course_, Lord Malfoy, having lived so long with a priceless heirloom, would naturally forget that avoiding it was not second nature to all his guests.

However, while Uncle Lucius would quite probably give them some of Harry's favourite, chocolate lava cake, for dessert, as a subtle reward for a most amusing prank, he knew that his own fathers and Aunt Cissa were very unlikely to see it the same way. So, under cover of the Weasel's screams, he nudged Draco and whispered that they had better make their escape now and, if caught, inform anyone who would listen that they were fleeing in terror of their lives from the banshee that had surely taken up residence in Uncle Lucius' office.

Immediately agreeing, Draco pondered to himself, as they ran shrieking through the hallways, that it was really very useful that his baby looked so angelic. No one ever suspected that behind those beautiful emerald eyes, there lurked the soul of a compulsive, twisted little miscreant.


	5. V

**L'Affaire de Coeur**

**Harry / Scorpius**

_For Kamerreon, who wished to see 'courtship'_

The first time Scorpius Malfoy saw his professor for Defence Against the Dark Arts, he was unbelievably disappointed. Harry Potter was so, well, small! If Scorpius were somewhat older, he would have said 'petite', but, being eleven and disillusioned with his father's school nemesis, he thought the term 'runt' more appropriate. Surely his magnificent father could not have been bested at Quidditch and duelling by this over-pretty little man? Why, he didn't even look all that much older than the seventh-years, while his father looked like a respectable, mature pureblood should. The silly runt and his father were the same age after all.

Scorpius would have been most upset had he looked back after leaving the classroom, to see the object of his disdain wiping tears of suppressed laughter from his eyes, prompted by the expression of horror and disappointment on the face of his old rival's son. Perhaps he should send an owl to Malfoy, detailing his son's obvious expectation that 'The Great Harry Potter' be the larger-than-life hero that Malfoy himself had so despised.

.*.*.*.

In the summer after his third year, Scorpius, while on a trip to Diagon Alley with his fellow Ravenclaw and best friend, Rose Weasley, and her godfather, Professor Potter, realized that the Professor seemed to be perfectly aware of his . . . less-than-intimidating appearance and was also aware of just how to use it. He watched in amazement as the man who was rumoured to be the most powerful mage in seven generations seemed to somehow appear fragile within a matter of seconds; an almost imperceptible tug to his robes here to expose more of his delicate collarbones, a hint of parted lips there to create an aura of uncertainty, an odd little sideways tilt of his head to make it seem as if he had to look up further than he had to in order to see the speaker, a move which just _happened_ to shift his bangs into the right position to frame those famous emerald eyes.

Scorpius stared, shocked beyond belief, as Minister Shacklebolt nearly fell over himself trying to offer Harry his arm and agreed almost immediately to increase funding for the research Potter was conducting at St. Mungo's.

On the way back to his room at Malfoy Manor, Scorpius was oddly silent. He had a great deal to think about. Perhaps Harry Potter wasn't the useless little twit Scorpius had thought he was.

After all, his lessons weren`t half-bad either.

He never noticed the way Professor Potter`s eyes lingered, considering, on the manner in which Scorpius had stared at the exposed bones, had moved instinctually towards him, half-raising a hand to brush those wayward bangs out of his eyes.

.*.*.*.

At the start of his fifth year, Scorpius absently noted that Professor Potter was just the right size to fit into his arms, should he choose to do so.

At the duelling club, which he was finally old enough to attend that year, he watched, hardening, as sheer magical power danced around Harry Potter as he fought against three of the Ministry`s top Aurors. That night, he fell asleep to dreams of green eyes blazing forth, the colour of the killing curse, as memories of that power washed through him, electrifying him.

He never noticed the startled widening of Harry`s eyes as he sensed the flare of arousal from Scorpius, or the surprised blush at the realization of the cause of it.

.*.*.*.

The summer before his seventh year, he spent most of his time writing and rewriting the ritual letters for the opening of a courtship between a pureblood heir and a lord of one of the old families.

Even before the last chimes of the clock heralding the arrival of his seventeenth birthday had faded away, the owls to Harry Potter and the Ministry bearing his Declaration of Intent were flying away.

He never saw Harry bite his lip hard enough to draw blood as he wrote out the refusal in a trembling hand.

.*.*.*.

For six years, Scorpius Malfoy conducted his courtship of Harry Potter.

At the end of the seventh year after he had sent out that first letter of many, Scorpius turned to the husband lying with their newborn son in his arms, still exhausted from the birth.

"Why did you refuse me for so long? I knew in seventh year that you returned my feelings."

Harry Potter-Malfoy looked at his husband. "Tell me, Scorpius, in the eyes of the world, who were you at the start of our courtship and at the end?"

Scorpius frowned for a few moments, puzzled. Then, he blinked, shocked. "I opened the courtship as Draco Malfoy`s spoilt, barely adult son, the joke of the wizarding world, who had apparently decided that Daddy`s money would buy him the Saviour as a husband."

Harry smiled gently, as his husband moved towards him. Scorpius placed a gentle kiss on his lips, while stroking their son`s soft cheek. "I ended it as a Master of Defence Against the Dark Arts and Potions, the youngest head of the Unspeakables in centuries."

He kissed his increasingly drowsy husband once more. "While I was courting you, you wanted me to court the man I could be and win him for all the world to see."


	6. VI

**Observations Over Time**

**Hermione/Ron (and undertones of Draco/Harry)**

_January 19__th__, 2001_

Dear Diary,

Today, my best friend finally grew a pair and asked my other best friend to start dating him. I don't know why he bothered, though. I mean, they seem to be doing it in reverse – they already squabble like an old married couple, so wouldn't starting the whole cycle anew be rather counterproductive?

Love,

Harry

.*.*.*.

_March 5__th__, 2006_

Dear Diary,

I believe that Ron is secretly a masochist, though not doing a particularly good job of hiding it. Just the other day, I watched him get thoroughly trounced by Hermione for neglecting to close his mouth while consuming yet another in his endless array of meals that would normally be enough to feed a small orphanage at one sitting. I don't know how she doesn't see through it. After all, he's been using the same tired old ploy to beg for abuse since our first year.

Even now, as I write this, he is attempting to drunkenly fondle a stripper, perfectly aware that Gred and Forge have somehow contrived to provide a live feed of his every action to Hermione and Mrs. Weasley.

I must remember to ask Charlie to put me in the pool at ten Galleons, for a good punch to the jaw after their vows but before the first dance. Hermione's too aware of public thought to give Ron what he wants too openly, but too impatient to hold out for very long. Besides, she probably doesn't want her wedding photos to show the groom taking his vows while sporting a thumping great shiner. Why, there might be accusations of a shot-gun wedding! Hmm, I wonder what the wizarding equivalent of that phrase is . . .

Love,

Harry

.*.*.*.

_September 21__st__, 2009_

Dear Diary,

I am quite convinced that it would be best for my godson's health if he came to live with Draco and myself. Ron, as much as I love him, is too spineless to provide a good environment for Hugo's development while being pulled in two by his mother's and Hermione's opposing views on child-rearing. I do not wish my wonderful Hugo to grow up displaying unseemly masochistic tendencies bred into him from birth and to have a fondness for women whose most frequent form of address towards him is '_Honestly, Hugo_!'

Draco has come up with a most excellent plan to kidnap Hugo and bring him to the Manor. My brilliant husband has proposed that we make it look as though everything is Ron's fault, and then blood-adopt Hugo and run away to France for a few years, to throw Hermione off the trail. I concur with this plot. Ron loves getting beaten up, anyway, and when we returned, Draco and I would be able to pass Hugo off as ours.

Love,

Harry

.*.*.*.

_September 1__st__, 2019_

Dear Diary

Alas, Draco's plan did not work. Hermione threw off the Confundus and came home just as Draco and I were arranging Ron into a position indicative of self-flagellation – given his predilections, surely it would be plausible! – though we were hampered by the characteristic stiffness evinced by victims of the Petrificus. She immediately flooed to the Manor and wrenched Hugo away from Dobby.

Draco and I were banned from Hugo's presence for two whole months afterwards. (After Remus assured her that Sirius had attempted something similar with me, due to his fear that I would grow into a boy unworthy of his Marauder heritage, owing to my mother's disgustingly wholesome influence, and it was all done because he loved me so, Hermione was somewhat mollified.)

Now, however, as we see Hugo off to his first year, I can see no lasting damage to my godson from his having grown up with his parents. I congratulate myself that this is entirely due to the redeeming influence Draco and I have exerted on his life. Hermione mutters on occasion about the 'corruption of youth' and Hugo being 'a one-man team of sadistic pranksters', but I am sure I have no idea as to what she means.

Love,

Harry


	7. VII

**Contractual Obligations**

**Severus/Draco and Sirius/Harry and a rather uncreative surprise**

_For Desiqtie, who wanted to see the word 'godchild' used with the above pairings_

The shock of the announcements had taken the wizarding world by storm. Before the start of the seventh year of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the Houses of Potter and Malfoy had proclaimed the reinstatement of the ancient erastes-eromenos traditions, wherein a carefully selected older male would usher boys of good family into adulthood, teaching them about every aspect of adult life, _especially_ those that no father could ever broach with his child. Instead, the godfathers of the two boys had been chosen to fulfil the role of erastes, the reasoning being that they were already close enough to the boys to prevent inadvertently hurting them in any way through ignorance, while being distant enough to not raise questions of the boundaries of decency being crossed.

Of course, from Draco and Harry's points of view, it was just a plus that their godfathers were a pair of sexy bastards.

.*.*.*.

Over time, of course, the furore died down, save for a few pockets of – mostly Muggleborn – resistance that penned furious letters to various newspapers and bureaucrats. The fact that none of these people would ever openly defy the Lords of the Houses of Potter and Malfoy, who were, after all, the ones who had signed their sons into these contracts, seemed to be lost on the ignorant, self-righteous busybodies that actually devoted their hours to carefully worded Howlers.

Meanwhile, as Harry and Draco grew used to Sirius and Severus exposing them to the adult world of politics, finance, intrigue and, of course, sex, the topic was raised of a ménage a quatre. Now, make no mistake, the two older men had no issues with the opportunity to ravage the youthful, beautiful bodies of their increasingly wanton beloveds. However, even Sirius, imperceptive blockhead that he was, bless the man, could tell that, despite his best efforts, he and his godchild were not entirely satisfied with the current state of affairs.

Oh, Harry took to the subtle manoeuvring for power that came with his title like a duck to water – Sirius quite thought that he may have cracked a rib or two trying not to laugh while watching crotchety old purebloods slaver and fawn over his exquisite eromenos, who played them better than Perlman on a Stradivarius. And he certainly had no complaints as regards Harry's enthusiasm and skill beneath the bedcovers, or on the tabletops, or on any available flat surface, really. What he did notice was that, despite Harry's obvious enthusiasm and affection for their arrangement, neither of them could quite shake off the knowledge of seventeen years worth of experiences that were more paternal and filial, rather than connubial.

So it was that, upon gazing at his godson and the other famous eromenos, Draco Malfoy, flirting with each other across the Riesling at a ministry ball, Sirius Black, Marauder extraordinaire, was hit by yet another of his brilliant ideas, which he immediately expounded upon to the fellow inhabitant of one of the convenient niches placed at regular intervals in the ballroom walls. The fact that it was another of these brilliant strokes of genius that had lead to the near-demise of his companion, none other than Severus Snape, was immediately pointed out. However, this rather pertinent argument was brushed aside as "Details, details, my dear Sniv! Surely you can't say that you do not experience those odd moments of double vision where you reach across the bed to grab a nice perky handful and are unpleasantly reminded of an occasion several years ago involving yourself, that same behind attached to a giggling, green-eyed baby and copious amounts of powder and diapers."

Severus wore the most curious expression Sirius had yet seen grace his features. "As a matter of fact, I was very nearly, er, _unmanned_, the first time Draco screamed out 'Sev!' and the picture that popped into my mind was one of a blonde baby yelling at me to pick up his fallen stuffed dragon."

Both men were silent for a moment, contemplating this rather horrifying juxtaposition of ideas, then shuddered.

Quickly downing a fortifying glass of Macallan's finest, Sirius proceeded to outline his idea. After all, while part of their erastes duties involved the sexual education of their charges, nowhere did it say that these lessons had to be conducted _alone_. They could, therefore, each subtly nudge their eromenos towards the other's, without deviating from the letter of the erastes contract. Furthermore, despite the wonderful flexibility of youth, there really were a finite number of positions that could be used and, having been completed several times over, these could be said to have discharged that portion of their contractual obligations for Severus and Sirius.

They shook hands on it and decided to ask their charges about the possibility of a joined, ahem, session later that week. Surprisingly, the suggestion was met with immediate enthusiasm. Had either Severus or Sirius been less inclined to blame the rampant hormones of teenaged males, they might have become suspicious at the swift acquiescence to their wishes.

.*.*.*.

Harry lifted his head from Draco's chest, thinking to himself, as he savoured the ache in his derriere as he shifted, that Draco had certainly made up for lost time. Gazing, smirking, at the entwined limbs of both his godfather and Draco's, he quietly nudged his fiancé. "What do you think, love? Did it work?"

Groaning lightly, Draco brushed a hand through Harry's silky mop of hair. "I should bloody well hope so! Took the idiots long enough."

Harry sniggered softly. "Do you remember the expression on Dad's and Uncle Lucius' faces when we first told them about our plan?"

Despite himself, Draco let out a snort of laughter. "I don't think they even knew those contracts existed. How do you think they would have reacted if we told them that the original reason we dug them up was that, twenty years of unresolved attraction between them be damned, we really wanted to shag our godfathers?"

"Er, probably the same way they reacted when they found out that we would _be_ shagging our godfathers? Just a thought."

"Prat!" Draco rolled Harry underneath him once more. "I see that you've been spoilt by Sirius while I've been away. I shall have to shag you into mindless obedience."

"Oh, but Draco, do you think once would be enough? There's a _lot_ of Sirius' indulgence that you're going to have to make up for."

On the other side of the bed, ignoring the increasingly violent movements of the mattress, Sirius and Severus stared, horrified, into each other's eyes, aware in that moment that they had been, quite masterfully, played.


	8. VIII

**Enfin, You Are Here**

**Sanguini / Harry**

_For myself, as I am bored while in transit at Heathrow_

An instant before a subtle ripple of movement, of awareness, crossed the room, Sanguini's senses came alive in a way that nearly drove him to his knees with the shock of it. Warily, he glanced discreetly about him. Surely, after all these millennia, he couldn't have revealed his disquiet to this gathering of gauche humans?

Ah, it was not him that they were all staring at out of the corners of their eyes. Turning towards whomever it was whose blood was giving out the scent that set him aflame, he realized that it must be the same person that was drawing the attention of this crowd. For once, he thought distractedly, tagging along as Eldred Worple's apparently tamed pet vampire had its uses, demeaning though it was for an Ancient One to resort to such subterfuge, for the good of his race though it was. Who would have thought the little parasite would have been the key to finding his mate?

Still unable to see his mate through the crowd, a part of his mind, that which was fighting to retain his self-control and avoid entering a Blood Rage to kill all those obstructing his way to his mate, worried quietly that this person was a human – and under the crooked nose of that manipulative hypocrite Dumbledore to boot!

The greater portion of his mind, the same part that raged that he needed to claim his mate, mark them as his, right _now_, overruled the minority. Vampire mates were not weak-willed creatures. If they were, they would never withstand their induction into vampire society. He would not concern himself with the effects of Dumbledore's influence, if any. After all, mates were selected by magic itself, were they not? Besides, the humanity was a condition that was easily remedied. As the mate of one of the Ancient Ones, his mate would gain powers upon his Turning besting those of even trueborn vampires many centuries their senior.

Irritation starting to set in, he realized that, while he could not see his mate, he could see the one accompanying them. It was a girl, so, given the homophobia of humans in general, his mate was likely to be a boy. Sending out tendrils of his magic, he tasted that of the girl, confirming that, to his relief, nothing beyond friendship bound her to his mate. What he did _not_ expect, however, was the sheer knowledge in her magic as it calmly met his. Inside, he snorted, taking a better look at the girl. If this was how humans treated their Seers, it was no wonder that they were so backward a race.

Before his power had retreated to his core once more, he caught a flash of jealousy permeating the room, like acrid bile eating away at its material. Tracing its source to a red-headed female with the most vulgar expression of greed and resentment on her face, he smirked at the thought of how she might react to what was to come.

Then – a break in the crowd, a light tenor laugh echoing across the room to Sanguini, and he could bear the separation no longer, not when his mate was within reach after so many millennia of solitude. Leaving that fool Worple mid-sentence, he pushed through to a slight, black-haired boy of less than average height. The strain of reining himself in manifesting itself in the tremors running through him, he turned the boy as gently as he could, under the circumstances.

A glimpse of bright green eyes widening in surprise and then acceptance was all it took to drive his fangs into the soft skin where throat met shoulder. Later, he would wonder about the acceptance. For now, it was enough that his need for the ambrosia of his mate's blood was being sated. The screams echoing around the room were paid no more attention than the hexes being sent his way, only to dissipate on reaching the barrier that automatically rose while a Blood Bonding was being conducted.

Panting slightly, he finally removed his fangs, licking the puncture wounds shut. Holding the weaving boy tightly, he paused to look proudly at the claiming mark decorating his mate's neck, before gently bending down to kiss him.

Drawing back from his mate's lips, it was only then that he noticed the distinctive lightning bolt scar on his forehead. Harry Potter winked.

Shocked and elated, Sanguini held his mate to him and laughed.


	9. IX

**The Vagaries of Fathers and Geology**

**Draco / Harry**

_For CosmicRealtor, who begged for further stages in the life of little Draco and Harry_

Draco poked at it with his branch – which they were, of course, pretending was his wand – while shielding his baby from potential harm. They waited. Nothing happened. They waited some more. Still nothing. Harry came forward, peering at it. He poked at it with his own branch. Perhaps it responded differentially towards different individuals?

.*.*.*.

The two six-year-olds were confused. They had _heard_ Harry's Daddy saying that he would rather amuse himself with his pet rock than attend one of Draco's Father's Ministry soirees. Lucius had laughed and said that he must one day meet this pet rock, for surely it must be extraordinary indeed if it could compete with the amusement provided by observing Fudge. Right there, Draco and Harry had nodded at each other in perfect understanding. They absolutely _had_ to meet this wonderful rock.

In pursuit of this noble goal, the boys had watched and waited for a few days, attempting to isolate this rock away from the presence of any interfering adults. They had narrowed the choices down to the pretty chunk of rose quartz on Remus's desk and the smooth pebble of obsidian sitting near the window seat. It was Severus, however, who provided the clincher. Harry had observed his Papa asking Daddy if this was the famous pet rock, so favourably compared to Fudge, while hefting the quartz in his palm.

Harry had decided there that Draco's advice on good hiding places – gleaned quite early on in Draco's career as a nosy little git – was quite brilliant. After his parents walked out of the room, he crawled out from inside his Daddy's large antique vase, mentally thanking Dobby for teaching Draco and himself about anti-shatter charms. He would tell Draco about his discovery – and be kissed and hugged for being such a "good, clever baby" – and they would come in here while his Daddy and Papa were off 'hunting rabbits'.

Harry paused on his way to Draco's room. Why did they have to go hunting every day? Sometimes several times a day, even! When Harry had asked how they found rabbits to hunt in their bedroom, for that was where they retreated each time they decided to do this, his Papa had looked stumped, then rather guilty, while his Daddy had smiled at him, amber eyes twinkling, and told him that there was a secret passage that led from their room to the grounds.

Harry had been most impressed and decided that when he and Draco got married, as Draco assured him they would, they needed to have a secret passage of their own, perhaps to the back of the rose garden, where they hid their treasures.

Harry shook his head. Now was not the time for such memories. He had to find Draco so that they could stake out Harry's family's rooms and know when his Daddy and Papa went on their excursion, in order to kidnap the pet rock.

.*.*.*.

And, so, that was how they found themselves poking at the rock, to find out its so-called attractions for themselves. After all, anything that was even more entertaining than that peculiar Cornelius Fudge must be very funny indeed.

They stared at it some more. Certainly, it was very pretty, with gold veins running through the pink, but it still wasn't _doing_ anything.

"Perhaps we should try other ways of waking it up. Baby, will you fetch a goblet of water? Maybe it's thirsty."

.*.*.*.

When Narcissa came to the playroom about an hour later, she was greeted with the curious sight of a lovely chunk of rose quartz sitting in the middle of the room, with an empty circle around two feet in radius surrounding it. The boys were standing on the edges of said circle and levitating things at the rock, while alternately crooning praise of the rock's beauty in an attempt to bribe it into action and shouting in its direction that it was a useless piece of trash that wouldn't _do_ anything.

Quirking an eyebrow, she quickly backed out of the room. At times like this, Draco was obviously being his father's son, so it was only right that Lucius deal with the boys and their possible imminent lunacy.


	10. X

_A.N. I normally can't stand over-extended author's notes, but I feel that some grovelling is long overdue. I sincerely apologize to everyone who took the time to send me reviews and messages for not acknowledging them – and a huge 'I'm sorry' for the many, many days I have gone without updating this compendium._

_I'm afraid I came down with dengue fever on a weekend visit to the tropics and, after my platelet count dropped astronomically, I really wasn't in any condition to think straight, never mind write. However, after I started recuperating, I was too apathetic and all 'I-hate-the-world' to look at my laptop, so that is where my cause for apology begins. _

_The following snippet is based on something a friend mentioned to me, which struck me as both bizarre and perfect. _

**If I Could Tell You**

**Sherlock Holmes / Harry**

_Because I love you more than I can say,_

_If I could tell you, I would let you know._

_W. H. Auden_

There were some things, he thought blearily, that could not, that _should_ not, be reduced to mere facts pinned across the board of one's mind like so many butterflies. Sherlock searched through the box, long fingers preparing a shot of cocaine with the practice of long use. Waiting for the drug to take effect in his veins, Sherlock moaned at the pain of the memories that overwhelmed him at the slightest hint of lucidity.

A pair of magnificent green eyes, dull with resignation and a sort of hopeless love, floated across his mind. Snarling in rage, Sherlock hurled the syringe at the door, as though giving in to his passions now could take away the hurt inflicted through countless heartless experiments conducted on the disoriented, frightened boy that had materialized in his living room ten years ago, wearing the oddest necklace with an hourglass pendant and looking as though he had been through hell and back.

With trembling fingers, he dug out another syringe. He obviously needed a stronger dose if he could still remember this much. Images floated through the drug-inflicted haze he was in.

.*.*.*.

A beautiful boy kneeling before the man who had realized the potential of a sexual submissive who was lacking all memories prior to his arrival in Sherlock's home, his eyes shining with a love unsullied by the horrors he had seen . . .

A terrified, but still-trusting boy anchored to electrodes, as Sherlock tested his hypothesis on whether differing levels of electrical activity in his body could affect this strange phenomenon that the silly child called magic . . .

Blood running through the cracks between the stones on the floor as Sherlock attempted to ascertain whether the boy's abilities increased his tolerance to pain and various stimuli above that of an average human . . .

An absent kiss given during rough sex lighting the boy's face for days . . .

Hatred in Watson's and Mary's faces as they attempt to kidnap the boy to heal the strategically broken bones, while Sherlock shouted obscenities at them for daring to disrupt the process of his experiment on healing times and their relationship to the quantity and quality of wounds present . . .

A resigned hurt lingering on the boy's face as he is laughed away for desiring to be held. A warmed blanket properly wrapped about oneself has a far greater thermal insulating effect than the human body, after all . . .

A moment from a life on the run, as the boy polishes the floor of a room even after the chemicals he uses have caused his hands to start bleeding, in the hope that, by making himself useful and not using any of his abilities that logically should not exist, he will be noticed and perhaps, just perhaps, treated better than an experiment that walks about on its own . . .

A brilliant, innocent smile that Sherlock hadn't seen after the first time he had flogged the boy, and hadn't realized he had missed . . .

A bemused, almost fond look on his face as Sherlock woke to a silky mop of hair ensconced on his chest . . . memories of this sort had been few and far between.

.*.*.*.

A bitter laugh broke free from Sherlock's lips. Of all the memories that were inundating him now, the worst was the one at the graveyard, even worse than the horrific scene at the Reichenbach falls, now forever imprinted in his memory. He had watched the boy gaze around, wonder that he had not seen in years filling his eyes, an expression of serenity and content, alien on that too-tormented face, settling on his features.

When they had walked to the waterfall from there, he felt the strangest chill run through him, defying those laws of logic that Sherlock espoused so fervently by taking place in high summer. He had turned to the boy, intending to assure himself of the constant presence in his life for the past decade, and one long taken for granted.

He had been unable to move a muscle, terrified beyond belief. The expression on the boy's face – to Sherlock, he would always be his boy, eternally young in a world too old and cruel for him – was one Sherlock had seen on soldiers marching to their deaths, accepting death as an old comrade as it marched alongside them.

The look in his green eyes before he leaped gracefully over the edge, soaring through the air as though suspended in the flight he was once famous for, would haunt Sherlock till the day, fifteen years from now, he threw himself off the Falls to join the one he loved, loved as much as his fractured mind was capable of allowing.

The resigned despair at a fate there is only one release from, the hopeless love that knows it will never be returned, that had eaten away at a face that should be too young to know such things . . . all these had been etched in the boy's eyes for years and it was only now, at the end of it all, that Sherlock saw what he had done, what the final outcome of his great experiment was.

.*.*.*.

Fifteen years later, soaring through the same spray that had cleansed his Harry of the woes he had borne in life, Sherlock laughed. It had taken the boy's death to make him see what he had, indeed, felt for him, in his own twisted fashion.

Perhaps now, in a world unfettered by the rules he had tried to impose on the one he left, he would see that beautiful smile again, when he told Harry he loved him.


	11. XI

**Broken Wings, Jagged Talons**

**Harry / James Sirius**

_For Kamerreon, who wanted the above characters with the word 'Squib'_

No one ever mentioned it in the Potter household. They knew better. After all, it stands to reason that the most powerful wizard in several generations doesn't want to be reminded that his firstborn is unable to even see the magic that his father is revered for possessing.

Even in the dead of night, amid tears wept in absolute silence by a boy who would never be able to perform a Silencing Charm, there was no one who had the strength to give voice to the demon that had plagued Harry Potter since James' fifth birthday, when three of Britain's top paediatric Healers, one after the other, had nervously stuttered out that there was no trace of a magical core in James Sirius Potter, that the child of one of the most gifted fliers in a century would never be able to even sit on a broom.

The swirl of activity that had filled the subsequent ten years were all a blur for the Potters, a never-ending parade of visits to the most powerful and knowledgeable Healers and academics in the world. Finally, it was in a tiny hut in the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas, in one of the most beautiful parts of India, that a wizened old woman gently told Harry and Sirius the truth of the matter, that James' core had simply been drained away by another's greater need, that what once was taken cannot now be given back. Quite simply, she said, not even magic can protect us from having to face the consequences of our actions, conscious or not.

It was after that, James realized, that his father had stopped smiling, had lost hope and joy and faith in the world he had fought so hard to save. Looking at pictures taken just after his birth, he saw the disbelieving happiness in his father's face as he held James and knew that, at some level, his father had known that this could not last.

So, when people pitied him and whispered behind their hands, thinking that simply because he couldn't sense magic, his hearing was somehow defective as well, he wanted to scream at them to stop, that they were hurting his father so. Even his mother and siblings went out of their way to coddle him whenever they remembered the silent boy in a world dominated by sound, as though by doing so he would somehow overlook the fact that he lived in a household of some of the most magically powerful people of their time, a cripple in the presence of Olympians. They never seemed to see the shadows under his father's eyes growing darker, the hollows in his cheeks, deeper. Of course, his father's glamours were far more powerful than any other wizard's. They were never there when James wanted to rend them apart for so thoughtlessly performing miracles that James could only gape at.

Most of all, he loved his father, for doing this for him. Most of all, he hated his father, for doing this to him.

No one, other than his firstborn son, ever realized that the reason Harry Potter could never bear to so much as look James in the eye was that Harry had, somehow disrupting the magic governing time, taken the magic that his son would have borne in the future away from him, that his Squib son was the source of his phenomenal power.

Only James knew that it was because his father loved him so much, he hated himself for stealing the world he lived in from his son. Only James knew it was because his father could not bear to see it again, the twisted love and hatred that warped him into drawing Harry into his room at night and pounding into him, until he could, for that day, at least, find a release for his rage deep inside Harry's bleeding, broken body.


	12. XII

**Triquetra**

**Fred / Harry / George**

_For Kiwee, who wanted to see the above trio_

Time. It was what they were all most jealous of, the time that each of them felt either of their partners was spending with the other.

The twins had always been each other's worlds. For them to open their circle of two, to expand that smooth ribbon connecting them, enclosing them, into a triquetra, for Harry meant the world. What none of them realized at first was that while a circle is but one unbroken line, winding round and round itself for eternity, a triquetra is all sharp curves and pointed edges. With the slightest movement, the delicate balance holding the triquetra in place would shatter. It is not a shape capable of absorbing change and growth, but one that actively resists it.

The twins wanted Harry as they wanted chocolate and the wind whipping through your hair in flight and the sweetness of air filling your lungs, with the desire that, once kindled, can never be fully quenched, whose source can never be released, for fear of dying without the temporary release from want that it brings. They wanted each other as they wanted their arms, their legs, their hands, without conscious thought, but fierce, primitive possession.

Harry, who had never had anything to name his own, clutched desperately to the twins, forever fearing that they would place him on the outside someday, beyond the charmed circle that had bound Fred and George before they had ever taken him to their beds and hearts.

The most coveted position in their bed was that of the centre, with both of those on the edges fearing to be the one to wake and find that the others' backs were turned to him. And yet, they never consciously realized that the one in the centre would always have to choose, would always have to reject one in favour of the other.

.*.*.*.

After two years, Fred realized that everyone was most comfortable when he was on the middle, that it was he who loved it most to wake and find both a black head and a red on his chest, that it was he who had first looked past his twin and been entranced by black hair, pouting red lips and green, green eyes, that it was always he who received the first kisses of the morning and the last kisses of the night.

His jaw clenched as he realized that he had to keep this knowledge from his lovers. He was too selfish to let either of them go and too lazy to bother to placate both of them separately when he could have them both together.

He sighed. What did it matter? So long as neither of them realized that they were never truly in love with each other, merely acquiescent to his desires, they could, all three of them, live a long and happy life together, jealousy and all.

.*.*.*.

After the final battle, their delicately balanced triquetra collapsed, leaving only a trembling circle of guilt and love and hate and desperation trapping the two left behind forevermore.

It was easier for Harry. When they made love, he didn't have to close his eyes to pretend that it was Fred above him.


	13. XIII

**Greatness, even unacknowledged, cannot be diminished**

**OC/Harry**

_While I am running up quite the backlog of prompts, the following quote just struck me out of the blue, and begged that a story be written in its honour. Also, in response to a few amusing messages I have received, I would like to clarify here that the Harry I write of bears no resemblance whatsoever to Daniel Radcliffe, who – for me, at least – has ZERO sex appeal._

_`I am prepared to die, but there is no cause for which I am prepared to kill. `_

_Mahatma Gandhi_

Alistair LeNoir was a natural Healer. Unlike the majority, who had to labour for years of study to be able to call up the ancient Sanos magic, Alistair had been proficient at it from childhood, from when he had wished that his dying Alsatian be healthy and it was so. He had taken an oath upon his magic on his fifteenth birthday, to never use hand or magic against any other living being, in order to continue using the gift of the Sanos. Never before had he felt the slightest impulse to break his oath, magic and his gift of Healing be damned.

He looked down at the broken body of his husband, the man he had left the sunny beauty of his homeland for, the one for whom he had willingly left behind the palaces he had grown up in, the Black Lord of the Isles, just as he bore the title in France. Too many times had his love been returned to him in this manner, shattered in both body and soul, left to him to hold through the tears and screams and nightmares. Too many times had the world cast him aside as soon as Harry no longer bore the gloss of a young, beautiful hero leading his people to freedom. Too many times had he been the one to push his magic into his love`s body, hoping that the vestiges of Harry`s magic left in the petite body would be enough to regenerate his core. He felt the foreign desire to kill, to _destroy_ those that had hurt his Harry so surge through him, before he quickly forced it down, lest it affect Harry`s Healing.

As he moved his magic through Harry`s body, he thought back to how they had met, how he had fallen deeply in love with this man who still sometimes looked shocked that he had been given such a gift. He still remembered the first time he had seen Harry, when he had come to the Isles to meet the newly declared Lord Black of the British branch of the family. Harry had been so very young, and, even then, showing the promise of heartbreaking beauty that he would soon grow into. Unsure and frightened of his new role in life, when those who should have cherished and guided him had betrayed him and lied to him so many times before, Harry had still stood strong as the Black family magic tested him and found him worthy to bear the sigil of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Alistair sighed, calling his magic back into himself for a few moments. He was so unbearably tired. It seemed as though there had been a constant flow of the most critically wounded patients into his rooms for the past seven years. Hard, thankless, work, even as he dealt with the notoriety of being a foreign, pureblooded noble of the House of Black. However, their prejudices never stopped them from making full use of his gift.

He had come to this cold, war-torn land to welcome Hadrian Potter into the select fellowship of Black Lords and Ladies in the world. He had stayed to watch him grow and mature into a man he had fallen inextricably in love with.

A slight sound escaped Harry`s lips. Alistair quickly glanced down, smiling. The only good thing the Dursleys had ever done for his husband was accelerate his natural rate of healing to a phenomenal degree. With only the slightest help from Alistair`s magic, Harry`s core was capable of regenerating in a matter of hours, a feat which would leave most wizards dead.

Brushing his hands absently through Harry`s unruly locks, Alistair pressed his hand to the base of his own spine, pushing in magic to ease the ache in his own bones. Sometimes, he wondered if it was worth it, to have left his magnificent, peaceful home in his own country, where he was acknowledged as one of the most gifted Healers of his time, for this thankless existence, toiling through endless rows of wounded, met with sneers and envy and suspicion when he wasn`t being ignored. He thought of the fear he felt, each time Harry left for the front lines of battle, the fear that he and little Orion would be left behind in this world, the fear that he might never see his beautiful love on this side of the veil again, the fear that he had not told him that Alistair loved him often enough.

Then, even deep in his Healing sleep, Harry smiled, the same quiet, beautiful smile of unbelievable joy that he had worn when Alistair had asked him to marry him, when Alistair had gently made love to him for the first time, when Harry had presented Alistair with the son he had given birth to. And Alistair remembered why he had come here, why he stayed, and why it was all worth it.

Stories are told and epics sung of the heroes that sally forth and earn glory in the clamour of the battlefield. No one ever speaks of those who are forced to stay behind.


	14. XIV

**I Told You So **

**Draco / Harry**

_For Lady Chocobo, who wanted the boys with the prompt 'colours'_

Draco attempted to look down his nose at the man in front of him, who was introduced to him as the Minister for Magic. After several minutes of trying and failing to do so, he gave it up as a bad job – he was still much too short to carry off the look. Turning away from the silly little man – was it Podge? – he attempted to peer past his father's knees to see if he could find any other small persons that he could practice his expression on.

Hearing a murmur run through the room above him and seeing his parents and the Podge-man turn to look at something, Draco pouted. Sometimes he hated being four! He was still so _small_. Tugging on his father's robes until Lucius looked down at him, Draco held up his arms imperiously, demanding to be held. Mouth quirking in an almost-smirk, Lucius complied with his son's demand.

Turning in the direction he had seen everyone looking, Draco's eyes landed on the man that seemed to command attention as easily as drawing breath. Dismissing the man as yet another stupid _grown-up_, Draco made to clamber down his father, before his eyes caught on something. There, holding tightly to the man's hand was a most wonderful being, a most exquisite explosion of colours. In tiny emerald green robes embroidered with what Draco was too young to recognize as the Potter and Black crests, the little person was looking about themselves with curiosity, revealing a pair of eyes that would put the famous Slytherin emeralds to shame, set in a glowing ivory face, framed with midnight hair.

Draco felt the strangest pull within himself, the one that he felt when his father showed him the Malfoy Sabre, brought from France by their ancestors when they came to the Isles, the one he would later learn was his magic responding to something that felt intrinsically right and _his_ to it.

Forgetting his intentions to practice his best Snooty Malefoi-Heir Expression (TM) (which he had been perfecting before his mirror and had been brought by his ancestors from France along with the sabre), Draco quickly scrambled out of his father's arms and rushed towards this wonderful new person, who was such an antithesis to the pale beauty that Draco's family were renowned for.

Stopping in front of him – once within close range, Draco was able to deduce his future playmate's gender from the cut of the little boy's robes (his mother _did_ always tell him that he was the most brilliant boy in the world) – Draco stared at him, drinking in the sight of this strange, pretty creature, who had, at some point, released his guardian's hand and wandered off on his own, much like Draco himself.

"You're very pretty," he blurted out.

The boy cocked his head to the side, a puzzled, yet polite expression on his face. "Thank you," he piped in response.

Draco decided that he would never practice the Snooty Malefoi-Heir Expression (TM) on his new friend. The new boy would instead rule the universe at his side! As he had seen his father do on occasion, he put out his hand. "My name is Draco Lucius Malfoy. I am most honoured to make your ack-will-end-tence." Draco was not entirely sure of this last word, but its length sounded most impressive. Besides, if Draco did not know its meaning, there was a fair chance that the boy wouldn't either, considering the fact that he seemed to be smaller than Draco himself.

The boy appeared suitably impressed at Draco's vocabulary. He gave an adorable little bob of a bow and introduced himself. "I am Hadrian James Potter, also of the House of Black. The honour you have bis-tow-eathed on me is mag-nee-fi-cult."

Both boys beamed at each other, convinced that they were the most brilliant creatures in existence and that the universe was now theirs for the taking.

After a few moments spent forming their own little Society of Mutual Admiration, Harry and Draco were jabbering away happily to each other while playing an involved little game of Steal-the-canapés, the prizes of which were consumed beneath a convenient table.

When the party was drawing to a close, Draco realized, alarmed, that his new friend might actually _leave_ if steps were not taken. After a quick consultation, Harry allowed that he was amenable to coming with Draco to live at Malfoy Manor, "but only if my Daddy comes too". Draco was quick to assure him that his Daddy was most welcome at his new home, but that they should probably leave soon, in case someone else decided that they wanted Harry.

.*.*.*.

"Lucius, old man, _why_ is your son attempting to carry mine out of the ballroom?"

"Sirius, I do not have the slightest idea. Perhaps we should go and see what idiocy Draco has thought up now."

As they drew nearer to their offspring, they were most amused to see Draco with his arms wrapped around Harry's middle, trying his best to carry him without weaving about, while Harry had his arms about Draco`s neck, looking for all the world like an adorable porcelain doll.

Despite Draco`s protests that, since he was taking Harry to live with him at Malfoy Manor, it was his responsibility to ensure that Harry was carried to bed and tucked in – as it was past his bedtime – he was overruled and Harry handed over to his Daddy.

Promises were made on both sides to ensure that, really, _yes_, boys, they would meet again tomorrow and every day after that if they so wished, but in order to receive such a treat, all good boys had to go to bed in their own homes, with their own families. After kisses between the boys that had the adults eyeing them speculatively, running over the wording of traditional marriage contracts even as they thought how adorably innocent it was, two sleepy little boys were taken home – separately.

.*.*.*.

Draco gazed at the contrast between the colours of the heaving bodies of himself and his new husband, still marvelling, even after all this time, at the beautiful juxtaposition of Harry`s intense, rich tints with his own icy pallor. Stroking Harry`s sweaty hair off his forehead, Draco was rewarded with the revealing of the emerald eyes that had entranced him so many years ago.

Smiling up at him, Harry pulled Draco down once more, onto the nest of their wedding robes that lay between him and the bed.

He was so glad that their parents had kept the promises they had made at that ministry ball so long ago, to allow them to meet as often as they liked as long as they lived apart. If they had lived in the same house, Harry was quite sure that he would never have made it to his wedding night a virgin.


	15. XV

_AN: I apologize to all of my readers – if indeed any are still left after my long absence – for my extended hiatus. In my defence, all I can say is that until quite recently, I was suffering from some RL issues in the family and it was quite enough work to get through university. I humbly offer you this drabble, and promise more of better quality in the not-too-distant future._

_PS. Points to whoever gets the Elizabeth Peters reference!_

**The Way the World Turns**

**No particular pairing**

"Why? Why would you do this for me?"

"Because you are young and pure and very beautiful. Because I would wish that someone had done the same for me when I could say the same of myself."

.*.*.*.

He looked at his erstwhile captor, truly looked. For the first time, he saw what had been so painstakingly hidden from the world. The eyes of an idealist proven wrong behind the near-permanent sardonic sneer. The overdone, almost grotesquely effeminate make-up obscuring features that had once left all who looked upon them speechless. The eyes . . . those eyes were so hauntingly familiar, but surely it was impossible.

The infamous stranger, the spider that wove together the threads of the criminal underworld of Wizarding Europe, who had ruled the Dark side for almost as long as the boy had been alive, laughed darkly, noticing the perusal of his features.

"Trust me, boy, they are raising you as a lamb for the slaughter. As soon as your 'pre-ordained' task is completed, you'll be vilified beyond imagining. There will be nowhere for you to run, except into the darkness you fought against _so_ valiantly. You see, people _need_ to have something to oppose to feel as if they are accomplishing something. It is, after all, far easier to destroy another than to create a unique niche for themselves in the world. Besides, one thing they never tell you in school is that Light needs the Dark to identify itself. After all, Dark is merely the absence of Light, with the reverse equally true.

.*.*.*.

He had no idea how long he spent with that strange, jaded man. It could have been days or weeks or months; he would not have known or cared. Through his company, though, the boy came to understand a few grim realities of his life.

Albus Severus had grown up being told that, as a child foretold by prophecy, it was his destiny to overcome the most powerful Dark Lord of their time, the Inferno, the man sitting before him very nearly molesting the cigarette he was smoking. He had dealt with the pressures of being the Chosen One since he first drew breath, always expected to be the noble, self-sacrificing warrior they told him his father had been. And yet, it was so clear, upon reflection, how he had been deftly set on this path, here to a man who could destroy him without ever reaching for his wand. The power of the Inferno was well known, after all.

Listening to the charismatic, darkly seductive man, it was all too easy to understand the little things that he had shrugged off as being 'for a higher purpose'. From what he understood, the struggle between the Light and Dark was nonexistent; magic was magic and both halves of it needed to be in balance for it to truly function. No, what was touted as being 'War against the Dark' was simply a case of the vox populi clamouring for the most powerful among their society to be brought down, preferably at each other's hands. It had not escaped his notice that few among the so-called Light faction, other than those in its upper echelons, wielded true magical might, whereas many of the Dark wizards he had met seemed to walk wrapped in an intoxicating perfume of power.

.*.*.*.

On the day he truly understood that nothing remained for him to go back to but the fickle disappointment of those who thrust a child forwards to fight a mage, while comfortably ensconced in their homes, Albus saw something that was almost a smile cross his unlikely mentor's face.

Assuring Albus that the manor they were in was secure and deeded to Albus, with provisions and servants to last him a lifetime, the Inferno prepared to leave. As the Inferno moved towards the edge of the Apparition wards, Albus could not help himself from shouting for him to stop. After all the man had done, after he had changed the flow of Albus' life for him, he still understood the reasons for it no better than he had on the first day he had been captured and brought here. He needed to understand why this man had cared enough about a boy barely out of his teens to change his life for the better, when the Inferno had killed others for daring to look disrespectfully at his pet Alsatian.

"Why? Why would you do this for me?"

As he slipped past the apparition barrier, the Inferno paused and looked at the boy, meeting his eyes fully one last time, the beauty of his own no less powerful for being surrounded by garish kohl.

"Because once, in another time, another life, I was your father."


End file.
